


Hell No's And Headphones

by rnadison



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: College AU, Dyslexic Murphy, M/M, Slow Build, but there will be more than enough fluff i promise, the classic tutor AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-17
Updated: 2016-04-14
Packaged: 2018-05-27 04:57:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6270448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rnadison/pseuds/rnadison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Bellamy tilts his head up to the stars, Murphy allows his own gaze to stray back to him.The moonlight cast a soft glow on his face; his eyes shone with amusement, freckles dancing across the bridge of his nose. He was achingly effortless, and he would never, in a million years, choose John Murphy. But for the next few moments, Murphy contents himself with the possibility that he might.<br/>--------<br/>The classic tutor AU that no one wanted. Contains colossal misunderstandings, stuffed brains, paper stars, and group chats full of innuendos.</p><p>[previously "Youthful Hue"]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Well, personally speaking, I have to say that I absolutely  _ hate _ it. I mean, the idea that this is some great lyrical  _ love  _ poem is bullshit. It’s just this horny guy’s poem, a sexually frustrated little freak trying to get some with his mistress by rambling about ‘time’s winged chariot,’ and not realizing that she doesn’t want anything to do with him at all. There’s nothing even remotely lyrical or romantic, and certainly nothing  _ erotic _ about this poem at all.” Murphy sits back in his chair, twirling his pen in long, lithe fingers. “No wonder his mistress is coy.” 

“You think Andrew Marvell was unsuccessful in this poem?” asks Professor Jaha, slouching back in his armchair. 

“Basically, yes. In this poem, anyway.” 

“So the voice of the poet and the voice of the poem are one and the same?” 

Murphy gives a shrug. “Why shouldn’t they be? There’s nothing to suggest a distancing device …” 

“What do you think, Bellamy?” 

When Professor Jaha brings Bellamy into the conversation, Murphy resists the (admittedly childish) urge to roll his eyes and sigh. It doesn’t matter how long Murphy spends sitting with a poem, building his argument; you could always count on Bellamy fucking Blake to one-up him every time. 

The boy in question plays for time by rubbing his ears, as though his critical analysis powers were somehow located in the lobes and he just needs to warm them up. “I think it’s more complicated than that, especially if you place the poem in its historical context …” This time Murphy doesn’t resist and he lets out the most obnoxious sigh he’s ever given in his life. Blake  _ always _ brought up ‘historical context.’ Professor Jaha gives him a look but doesn’t say anything; Bellamy continues as though they’ve never been interrupted. “For a start, there’s clearly a strong element of humor here. The use of rhetoric is self-conscious, and in that sense it’s sort of like Shakespeare’s sonnet one-thirty, ‘My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun’... except here the poet’s rhetoric gives him a foolish air ---- the desperation, the extremes to which he goes to persuade his lover to succumb makes him, in all actuality, a comic figure. It’s the comedy of sexual frustration and romantic humiliation. It’s actually the ‘coy mistress,’ the object of his unrequited love, who has all the power here …” 

“Well, that’s a load of crap,” Murphy snaps, and Professor Jaha raises his eyebrows at the boy. 

“Really, John? I think it’s an apt argument.” 

Murphy rolls his eyes, an  _ of-course-you-do _ look playing across his features. “The coy mistress has no power, and no personality either, she’s just a cipher, a blank, defined solely by her beauty and her unwillingness to have sex with his guy. And the tone isn’t comic, or lyrical, or  _ anything _ \---- ” 

“Actually, I think ---” Murphy shoots Monty a withering glare that’s supposed to make him wilt, but the boy swallows and presses on: “I think it is a bit lyrical. It’s set in iambic tetrameter, which automatically gives it a rhythm right there. I mean, it’s not like the poet’s stating his intentions crudely, or obviously we would’ve picked up on that … yes, the poem’s about sex, but the speaker neutralizes it by continuously complimenting the mistress, who… ” 

That’s as far as Murphy makes it, and he allows his gaze to drift out the window, if only to keep himself from sniping at Monty. He glances at Bellamy from out of his peripherals: he’s such a goody two-shoes, he’s actually  _ writing _ what Monty’s saying, like it’s  _ important _ or something. 

Murphy doesn’t know why he has it out for Bellamy. Maybe it’s something to do with how he makes everything look so _ easy _ : grades, sports, friends, looks, he had it all. Meanwhile, Murphy can’t even fucking  _ read  _ right. When it comes to the poems he has to read for this stupid class, he always has to listen to those overdramatic readings online and draw his arguments from there. He hardly ever marks up his book because, well, he doesn’t have to. But still, it’s pretty embarrassing to be sitting next to someone like Bellamy or Monty who’s highlighted and dog-eared almost every page, while Murphy’s copy still looks as pristine as the day he bought it. 

Murphy’s still brooding over this when the tutorial’s over; Bellamy even has the nerve to give him a small smile accompanied by a little wave. Murphy only glares back at him. As everyone else shuffles out of the room, Professor Jaha says: 

“Tell me, John, why are you here exactly?” 

The question takes the boy by surprise. He stops looking out the window and turns to Professor Jaha. 

“Um, tutorial. Two o’clock.” Murphy pushes his hair back and checks his watch on his other wrist. “Which is now over.” He makes to get up, but Professor Jaha speaks again:   


“No, I mean here, in college, reading English. Why are you here?” 

Murphy gives a squint of his eyes. “To … learn?” 

“Because?” 

“It’s … valuable?” 

Professor Jaha sighs, leans across the tabletop. “John. Your oral arguments are outstanding --- they do indeed give me the impression that you’re extremely interested in learning the contents of books. Though you do feel … strongly about our selections, you do back up your claims extremely well.” 

“Thanks …?” 

“My concern, John, are your essays.” 

Murphy’s heart drops into his stomach. “Oh.” He swallows thickly. “What about them?” 

“Frankly, they barely hold to the standards you set orally. There isn’t a shred of the insight or mental effort you give in your oral assessments ---- they’re shallow, pious, ill-formed, and stuffed full of cliches that I know you are above.” The professor’s hands form a little steeple in front of his mouth. “Most of all, I’m just disappointed.” 

Each word hits Murphy like a stab between his shoulder blades. “Okay … well ---” 

“I suggest that you seek out a tutor,” Professor Jaha calmly interjects. “The top of this class is Bellamy Blake. I’ve already spoken with him, and he’s agreed to take you on. I better be hearing about your progress, John.” The professor’s already standing, collecting his various folders spread across the table they’ve been sitting at, but Murphy only stares, openmouthed. The stabs have become bullets, fired one after the other. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the read and everything! I'm still unsure as to where I'm going to take this. This is my first Murphamy fic -- yikes!! They're definitely going to end up head over heels with each other, but of course I don't want to make that a smooth ride. There's also going to be other background relationships, like Clexa and maybe Minty, but I'm still working out as to where I'm going to put them.
> 
> Also, in case anyone's wondering, the poem they're studying is "To His Coy Mistress" by Andrew Marvell.
> 
> Say hi to me on tumblr!: bcllamyblaked


	2. Chapter 2

Bellamy’s waiting outside the door. Murphy comes out, takes one look at him, and promptly starts off in the opposite direction. He’d rather get a tooth filled without any Novocain than trust his grades to Bellamy Blake. Unfortunately, the latter notices his attempt at escape, and is quick to catch up with him.

“Hey, so --- Jaha said something to me about you needing a tutor?” Cute, he’s framing it like a question, like  they still have a _choice_ about all this.

“Well, I don’t,” Murphy says flatly, starting down a staircase.

“ _Well_ , I think you do. He showed me one of your essays --- looks like you could use a lot of help in the writing department.”

“Screw you.”

“John ---”

“Murphy.”

“Murphy, you’re great at orals. You really are. Your essays are what’s dragging you down.”

“Well, I wouldn’t know what it’s like to be the best at everything, would I?”

Bellamy hangs back for a second, then runs to catch up.

“I’m available on Monday, Thursday, and Friday afternoons after 3,”  Bellamy continues in a voice a shade cooler than before. “I have work the other days.”

Murphy looks at him. “You work?”

Bellamy shrugs. “At Five Points. In the ---”

“Not interested.”

They reach the last step. Bellamy pulls a Sharpie from a pocket of his bag before yanking Murphy’s wrist up.

“ _Hey_ \-- !”

“This is my number. Text me when you’re ready to work.”

A clock tower tolls in the distance. Bellamy gives him an unreadable expression as he lets Murphy’s hand drop.

* * *

 

The purchase of reduced-price food isn’t something one should enter into lightly. The dented canned goods are generally safe, but with “fresh” produce, it’s a minefield. As a general rule of thumb, the degree to which the price is reduced is proportional to the danger involved in actually eating it. The trick is to go for something that’s still a bargain without actually giving you stomach cramps; a measly 10 cents off a pound of blue-grey braising steak is hardly worth the risk, but a whole chicken for a quarter is just asking for trouble. Also, beef and chicken are generally safer than pork and fish. Old pork is no fun for anyone, whereas with old beef you can at least kid yourself that it’s not ‘stale,’ it’s ‘well-hung.’

Murphy contemplates all this as he browses the stock of the minimart in Five Points. Five Points is an outdoor shopping center that’s straining very hard to be a kitsch, small-town college hangout: most of the shops are locally owned, selling old clothes, vinyl, and other things college kids fascinate themselves with. At the end of the street stood a flashing traffic light that no longer worked in the intersection of five streets, all radiating out from the center like a star -- hence “Five Points.”

In the minimart, Murphy and an old lady with a moustache rivaling that of a cowboy’s eye each other warily over the one of the freezers. There are a number of lethal turkeys in there, as well as a leg of lamb that looks as if it’s in danger of climbing out of the freezer box and walking back to the farm itself. It’s a pretty disappointing haul, but Murphy decides to go for the Maruchan noodles, a tin of oven biscuits, and a dented box of Ritz crackers.

The sun’s still bright when Murphy walks out. He doesn’t want to go back to the dorms just yet, so he meanders up and down the street, pretending to be interested in whatever dirty shit’s in the windows now. Like the minimart, Five Points seemed to pride itself in reselling things to the generally poor college populace. Secondhand books, secondhand clothes, secondhand, secondhand, secondhand …. The only thing remotely fresh in the whole neighborhood is the flower shop, and that’s where Murphy goes next, if only to stop looking at yellowing, dusty things marketed as ‘vintage.’

The flower shop, like everything else, has a faded canopy; gold-emblazoned script that makes Murphy nauseous proclaims that it's _DALLOWAY’S FLORALS_. He looks inside: there are three pots in the window, stalks of vibrant purple somethings surrounded by other somethings, only these ones are pink. Though Murphy would never admit it, he actually really likes them. They look bright and happy, as though they are unaware of their inevitable death within the coming weeks.

But then his gaze shifts upwards, to the aproned employee who’s tending to the pots hanging from the ceiling.

Bellamy Blake.

On a stepladder.

Holding a pair of clippers.

If this were anyone else, Murphy might’ve laughed, taken a picture, and laughed at it again in the safety of his dorm. But he doesn’t do any of that. Instead, he watches Bellamy work; he watches his brawny, tanned arms reach up above to painstakingly clip the unwanted thorns and leaves. His apron only covers his front -- on the side facing Murphy, his shirt is riding up, and Murphy can see the smallest stretch of skin just above his hipbone.

Murphy forces himself to look away, anywhere but _there,_ and his eyes settle for his face. Bellamy looks completely different outside of school: his face is lit up with some emotion that Murphy’s never seen there before, something other than stress, or fatigue, or the overwhelming desire to be _perfect_ at whatever he's doing. Bellamy winces -- he's accidentally nicks his thumb on a thorn. He lets the clippers drop as he brings the offending thumb to his lips, sucking at the tiny pinpricks of blood oozing out.  Even his _posture's_ changed -- it's like he’s finally gotten rid of the huge pole up his ass. He's never looked at Bellamy for this long without rolling his eyes, or making some smart remark, or just expressing general annoyance at his existence. But now, with nothing but a pane of glass separating them... _You’re staring. Stop staring, Murphy._

He’s halfway up the street before he looks back at the number scrawled on his hand. His other hand reaches for his phone.

_Hey. I’ll be in the library tomorrow. After 3 and shit. See you._

* * *

 

“Bellamy, I need to ask you a serious question.”

“Okay, shoot.”

Clarke took a deep breath. “Aloe vera, or zanzibar gem?”

“Come again?”

Clarke rolls her eyes onscreen, and Bellamy cracks a smile. Clarke was studying abroad for her medical degree, an idea Bellamy couldn’t even fathom at first (“Surely medicine is the same no matter where you go…?”) but it was something she had really wanted to pursue. Anyway, who was he to stop her? He did miss her terribly, though, and with Octavia still in high school, Bellamy was seriously lacking in the ‘best friend’ department. Weekly Skype group dates would have to do until they could both be in town, but until then …

Octavia sighs in the other screen. “Bellamy, you’re a _florist,_ you ought to know the names of these things.”

“I sell flowers, O. Not succulents.”

“You know the names of every Roman emperor who’s ever lived, but you can’t differentiate between plants, which is your _paid job_?”

“Octavia…”

“Okay, children. Let’s focus on me, now, focus on me.” Clarke drew her hands to her chest in a graceful motion. “I don’t want to give Lexa something she already has.”

“Give her _actual_ flowers, Clarke,” Octavia suggests. “Lexa must have every succulent under the sun.”

“You’re right, but don’t you think the whole flower-giving business is a little morbid? Like, _‘here, I love you. Now watch these flowers slowly shrivel up and die.’_ Succulents don’t do that.”

“Actually ---” Both girls groan; Bellamy had _that look_ on his face, the one he assumes when he’s about to recite history at them. “In Shakespearean times, giving someone flowers actually meant you wanted to have sex with them. You know, because you’d want to _pollinate their flower …_ ”

They stare at him.

“Are you shitting me right now?” Octavia deadpans. Clarke giggles in the other screen.

“I’d love to hear you try that line on someone. _‘Excuse me, are you a flower? Because I’d love to pollinate you sometime ..._ ”

“He’d have to get out of his little molehill and have actual human contact first, though.” 

“Actually, I'm hanging out with someone tomorrow.” Bellamy says over the both of them. “So there.” He’s overwhelmed with a sudden urge to stick out his tongue.

Octavia’s eyes look like they’re about to fall out of her head. “You have a  _date_ ? With _who_? Not your history professor, I hope …”

“It’s _not_ a date, per se … someone just needs tutoring. And we sort of...  hate each other. But!” He holds up a finger. “It’s real human contact. One-on-one. Like you said.”

"They can't hate you that much if they're willing to spend one-on-one time with _Bellamy Blake._ " Clarke makes kissy faces at her camera. "Who's the lucky someone?" 

"Um, some guy named John Murphy. He's in my Eng. Lit class." 

"What's _Inglet_?" 

"Eng-lish Lit-er-a-ture." 

Octavia barks out a laugh. "How do you tutor someone in _English_?" 

"Search me. He's really good orally -- not orally _that_ way, Octavia, God -- but his essays are definitely something else. A _bad_ something else." 

On Clarke’s end, there’s the sound of a door opening and closing, followed by a girl’s voice yelling up the stairs. “Shit, Lexa’s back. I gotta go, you guys. Have fun on your date, Bellamy!”

“It’s _not_ a ---”

 _Beep-beep._ Connection ended. Octavia is left grinning at him. 

"Listen, Bellamy. Give him flowers if he hates you so much. Tell him you wanna pollinate his flower..." 

"Don't you have some homework to do, O?" 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the read! Also, thank you to all those kind people who left such lovely comments on the first chapter, you all rock my socks!! So awesome to know that people are enjoying it already. 
> 
> Also... I loved writing the group chat sequence. Clarke, Octavia, and Bellamy are such bros and I love it. 
> 
> Bonus points to anyone noticed the allusion with 'Dalloway's Florals.'


	3. Chapter 3

He’s meant to be doing an essay on ‘Nature Imagery in John Donne’s _Hymn To God, My God, In My Sickness_ ’ but Murphy’s been looking for a week and he still hasn’t actually found any yet.

The notes he’s pencilled in the margins don’t help, either (after agreeing to this... _tutoring_ thing, he figures it’s better to not show up with an unmarked book). He’s written things like “cartography,” “death?” and “Cf. Keats” and he can’t remember why, so he picks up Jacques Derrida’s _Of Grammatology_ instead. It occurs to Murphy that there are six ages of book-reading. The first is picture books, then (2) books with more illustrations than words, then (3) books with more words than illustrations, then (4) books with no illustrations, just a map maybe, or a family tree, but with lots of dialogue, then (5) books with long paragraphs and hardly any dialogue, then (6) books with no dialogue, no narrative, just great long paragraphs with footnotes and appendixes in very very small writing. Jacques Derrida’s _Of Grammatology_ is a book very much of the sixth kind, and even though Jaha had lent him the book in earnest (“Maybe it will help with your essay writing!”) Murphy just can’t fathom why on earth anyone would use it as a reference tool. He looks at the first sentence, flicks fruitlessly through the pages for a map or photo or illustration, then falls asleep.

When he wakes up, he suddenly realizes it’s almost 3 and he’s not at all ready for Bellamy’s Academy of Writing Essays On Shit Other People Wrote 400 Years Ago. Leaping from the chair at his desk, he makes a mad scramble about the dorm for his bag, stuffing _Of Grammatology_ in there too, if only to appear as though he had some idea of what was going on. He gives his side of the room another cursory glance, then his roommate’s. There’s a thesaurus at the foot of her desk. He swipes it up and it joins Derrida in the black hole known as Murphy’s Bag. His roommate’s an engineering major, so she’d hardly miss it.

Murphy rockets out of his room, glancing at his watch. 2:57. Wait. Didn’t his roommate have some important class today? An important class that ends at 2:30, which would give her plenty of time to walk back to their residence hall and --

“Murphy!” A look of surprise is etched on Raven’s face as he nearly collides with her at the doors leading out, but it’s not long before it’s replaced by a more familiar smirk. “Where are we going today that’s got you all worked up?”

“Nowhere.”

“Liar, liar, pants on fire.”

A resigned sigh. “The library.”

“The library.”

“Yes.”

“For what, pray tell?"

“Tutoring.”

Raven snorts. “You don’t do tutoring.”

He pushes past her and exits into the bright sunlight.

“But that’s good, though,” she says  quickly, trailing after him. “Look at you, getting serious about college. What’s it for?”

“Eng. Lit.” The reply is thrown over his shoulder. 

Raven stops walking. Then: “What’s _Inglet_?!”

* * *

 

The library at their university is five stories tall. It’s a pretty generous space, but with this comes an unspoken rule of ‘study hierarchy’ that dominates it. The first floor, though it looked almost exactly like the other floors, is just a hangout area or meetup place for clubs or people waiting on friends. At the heart of campus, it’s certainly the most accessible, along with the Student Union. As a result, hardly anything academic can be expected to get done here as it’s noisy with talk of the latest football games or a certain professor people loathed. Normal college stuff. The second floor is where actually study groups come together, but it’s still chatty; like the Holy Roman Empire, it’s a loose conglomeration of people desperately trying to achieve the same thing: graduation. By the fifth floor, it’s dead silence --- that’s where all the law and med students lurk, reading up on God knows what and looking as though they were going to shrivel into their Red Bull cans at any moment.

So Bellamy’s stationed himself on the third floor, where pods of two or three students would cluster together in different corners of the room, speaking in low murmurs and whispers. He’s gazing out the window, head in hand, lost in a sudden dream when Murphy raps his knuckles on the table.

“Murphy!” Bellamy says, more in surprise than in greeting. Then he’ll, inexplicably, move the books in front of him to the right. “You came.”

Murphy gives a shrug and drops in the chair across from him. “Let’s get this over with.”

Bellamy acquiesces with a nod. “Right. So --- I went to Jaha today and he lent me one of your essays. It’s the one we did on _Love’s Deity_ a few weeks ago.” He roots in his bag and pulls out the paper; Murphy instantly recognizes the hasty chicken scratch that he tends to produce during those timed essays. It’s somehow reassuring, if not beautiful.

Murphy shrugs. “And?”

“And -- okay, Murphy, first of all, do you have some kind of thing against love in poetry?” Bellamy gives a little smile with his eyebrows raised; _Seriously?_ “‘Cause here, you say Donne is absolutely, completely right in that he thinks Eros is totally whack. I mean, it’s a fair opinion. But you know, after what you said about the coy mistress …” he’s trying to establish a rapport between himself and the boy who obviously didn’t want to be there, and failing miserably. Bellamy’s eyes drop back down to the paper. “Anyway -- like I said, it’s a valid statement. But what’s dragging you down is you don’t use quotes from the poem, or even keywords from it to back you up. Like what phrases led you to believe that? You could start there.”

Bellamy’s voice had somehow gone to the wheedling tone usually reserved for getting his sister to take out the trash. He hadn’t meant to sound so condescending. Murphy’s looking back at him blankly, as if this entire time Bellamy’s been speaking Esperanto. He clears his throat and slides the paper across the table. “So today, we’re going to rewrite it. The poem’s on page 143 in your book. Give it a quick reread -- just tell me when you’re ready.”

Murphy’s throat closes up. It wasn’t just the thought of reading -- or attempting to read, anyway -- in front of someone else. No, it’s the fact that, in the rush to get here, he’d forgotten his poetry book. He’s put a thesaurus and fucking Jacques Derrida in his bag, but not his goddamn poetry textbook.

“Can I borrow yours?”

It’s a quiet request, one that Bellamy hadn’t been expecting.

“Er -- sure.”

After he hands it over, there’s a torturous fifteen minutes where it’s pretty obvious that Murphy’s not really taking in the poem, just sort of idly staring at the page with one hand in his hair, the other twirling his pen. Bellamy had meant to finish some reading of his own for Ancient Studies, but he can’t focus when he can practically hear the other boy struggling.

“You alright?”

Murphy glances up. “Fine.”

“You sure?”

Another minute passes. Murphy looks up again, hesitates, then back at the book before him.

“I’m dyslexic.”

The quiet confession hangs in the air like a woman’s perfume that’s too strong. Murphy keeps his eyes downcast at the page, idly toying with one of its corners, bracing himself for whatever Bellamy’s going to say next. He’s going to do The Look -- an upturning or his eyebrows, lips parted in sympathy. _Does that mean you can’t read?_ he’ll say. Or something like that, he expects.

But he doesn’t do any of those. He swallows, but the only change in expression is a small crease between his eyebrows. “So how do you …?”

Murphy shifts in his chair. “Um, poetry readings, mostly. On YouTube. I get audiobooks sometimes, too.”

Another moment passes, and Murphy can practically see Bellamy beginning to realize the impossible: he has to help a dyslexic kid learn to read.

Bellamy pulls the book back across the table. Murphy’s eyes widen. “What’re you doing?”

“We’re not going to get anywhere if you don’t even know the poem text.” Then, pressing on before Murphy can object (or before a rare moment of cowardice came over him): “ _I long to talk with some old lover's ghost / Who died before the god of love was born. / I cannot think that he, who then lov'd most, / Sunk so low as to love one which did scorn…_ ”

He’s reading to him.

In public.

The first thing Murphy notices about Bellamy’s voice is that it’s rich and warm, like he’s holding a spoonful of honey before his mouth. It’s oddly…   _different_ from his speaking voice, which seemed detached sometimes, like he was in some other world that wasn’t the present. But compared to the poetry slam recordings Murphy’s been using, it’s wonderful. There aren’t any weird pauses between lines, or random inflections on the words. He’s reading it like he’s just reading a story.

With Bellamy’s eyes trained on the page, Murphy can study him to his heart’s content. He’s never looked at him in such close proximity for very long, but now that he is, the first thing he notices is the light sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of his nose. He wonders if he’s the kind of person who has freckles all over his body, and with a blush he thinks back to the strip of skin he’d seen at the flower shop. Murphy jettisons the image from his mind, and tries not to look at the hints of dimples in his cheeks, or the soft curve of his arms as leaned against the table.

  “ … _Falsehood is worse than hate; and that must be / If she whom I love, should love me_.” Bellamy looks back up, raises his eyebrows. “Better?”

Shit. He hadn’t been listening, but Murphy nods anyway.

“So what do you think it’s about? Just give me a rough idea.”

Double shit.

* * *

 

“I’m quitting,” Murphy tells Raven later that evening.

“Quitting what?”

“What do you think? Tutoring.”

“Fine.”

“Did you hear? I said I’m quitting.”

“I said fine.”

They were in the communal boy’s bathroom at the end of their residence hall. Raven was replacing one of the showerheads, which no longer showered you, it attacked you. Murphy thought it was a water cannon.

Raven and Murphy’s friendship is a complicated one. He’s pretty sure that if they hadn’t been assigned roommates, he’d have never spoken to her. As it is, he has to spend at least eight hours a day in a very small room with her, so he might as well try to be a little friendly. For the most part, she kept to her side of the room, and he to his. But they share the same sort of dry humor, the same wit. She was --- dare he say it --- actually kind of fun to be with sometimes.

He nods at the showerhead. “Why isn’t the janitor doing that?”

“Because he’s doing something else. And you told me this one was giving you a hard time.”

“So? Pass on my remarks to him.”

“Why?”

She’s straddling a stepladder, working a pair of pliers. “You’re going to fall,” Murphy tells her.

“You’ll catch me.” She grunts. “This isn’t budging.” She hands him the pliers. “Pass me the monkey wrench.”

The tools lay on the smooth tiled floor. “Which one’s the monkey wrench?”

“The one that looks like a monkey.”

“Hilarious.” Murphy gives her the thing that’s neither a screwdriver nor a hammer. “So what do you think about me quitting?”

“I think it’s your decision.”

“Aren’t you going to try and talk me out of it?”

“Nope.” Raven grunts again. “Ah -- it’s moving.”

“But you _are_ disappointed, right?”

“No, I’m actually very happy with this wrench.” She grins at him. “There -- it’s off.” She holds out the old showerhead proudly.

“Congratulations. I know what you’re thinking. The dyslexic kid can’t handle tutoring from Mr. Hotshot, boo-hoo. You’re thinking, _Wow, I must’ve had my roommate figured out wrong all along!_ Right?”

Her response is a chuckle. “Pass me the thread sealer.”

He gives it to her. Raven unwinds some and starts wrapping it around the headless shower pipe.

“You actually know what you’re doing?”

“Incredible, isn’t it?” She cuts the tape and presses it into the threads. “Though I have to ask -- why are you quitting all of a sudden? It’s just one session. Bellamy’s a pretty nice guy. Easy on the eyes, too.”

Silence. Raven looks down at him.

“Oh, no.” She gives him a shit-eating grin.

“Oh no, what?”

She gives him a playful shove with her foot. “You dope, you like him!”

He keeps his gaze stoically trained on the opposite wall. “I do not.”

“C’mon, Murphy. _Everyone’s_ had a crush on Bellamy at some point. God knows I did… pass me the new showerhead.”

He passes it to her. “When did _you_ have a crush on him?”

“Last year, in Organic Chemistry. Give me the wrench again.”

Chemistry, for a _history_ major? As if Bellamy needed one more reason to feel superior to him. Murphy had enough trouble keeping up with his required subjects, and he was in for psychology.

“Here … so, what, one day you woke up and you were just … over it?”

Raven shrugs. “More or less. Just one of those schoolgirl crushes, I guess.” She eyes him. “Is that why you’re quitting?”

“Is what why I’m quitting?”

“You’re afraid your crush is more than a crush.”

Murphy scoffs. “It’s not a crush.”

“Then what is it?”  
  
He doesn’t answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Sorry for the long wait between chapters. I had no idea how to go about writing the first tutoring session. It took me ages just to do that one sequence. 
> 
> Also: "Love's Deity" by John Donne is a good one. The last lines of the poem (the ones Murphy hears) refers to the idea that unfaithfulness is worse than hating someone, but you're so whipped for your lover that you stay anyway . Is this ... perhaps ... FORESHADOWING?! *dun dun dunnn* 
> 
> In other news, I started reading the books for the 100. I wasn't expecting it to be so... different. Bellamy's a bit more of a dick in the books than he is in the show. There's also this guy named Graham who complains a lot and I'm pretty sure Murphy was based on him.


	4. Chapter 4

Murphy was pretty much fated to fall for Bellamy Blake. 

No one said this out loud, not sober, at least. But there are a few isolated incidents after that first meeting that are of extreme interest, ones that people within their inner circle would love to bring up after time had passed and they could reexamine that period with hindsight. Something that comes up quite a lot is the voice recorder.

Contrary to what Murphy had told Raven, he ended up  _ not  _ quitting. Three more weeks brought three more library sessions with Bellamy and his voice; in fact, at the end of that third meeting, Bellamy had pressed something hard and small into Murphy’s palm.

He looked at it. “What’s this?”

“Voice recorder. I put readings of all the poems we’ve done in class, and some other ones.” He shrugged, smiled. “Give it a listen every now and then, alright?”

He brushed past Murphy, leaving behind the slightest whiff of cologne and something else he couldn’t quite place; pine needles? He looked back down at the recorder in his hand, and was left with the giddy sort of notion that he was now in possession of a small piece of Bellamy Blake no matter where he went.

* * *

The second thing was the smile.

About a month after that first session, Jaha held another in-class essay:  _ Compare the use of fantasy versus reality in John Donne’s “The Flea” and “The Apparition.”  _ Bellamy looked around to where Murphy sat. Instead of idly staring out the window as he always did, he was already hunched over his paper, bangs falling into his face as his pen flew across the page. A corner of Bellamy’s mouth twitched into a smile. He turned back to his own paper.

The next class, Jaha called out their grades.

“Blake -- 94.”

Good enough. He’d take it. He wondered how Murphy had done.

“Foxe -- 87.”

Bellamy risked another quick glance at Murphy, who sat a few rows back. He was absently chewing the top of his pen. Murphy usually got around a 60 on a good day; a month of tutoring must have made a  _ little _ bit of a difference.

“Green -- 91.”

He wondered if Murphy had ever made use of the voice recorder. Murphy was the kind of person who  seemed to always have his headphones in -- surely he listened to those poems  _ sometimes. _

"Jordan -- 76.”

Getting closer. Bellamy put his head in the upturned V of his palms.

“Miller -- 90.”

Oooh, yikes. One point less than his boyfriend. Bellamy gave Miller a sympathetic smile.

“Murphy --” here Jaha raised his eyebrows, impressed. “75.”

Bellamy swiveled around, but Murphy’s only staring back at Jaha, pen falling out of his mouth. He’d  _ passed _ . Murphy’s eyes dropped down to Bellamy, who was beaming at him like he’d just won the World Cup. The smile was absolutely genuine, easily the brightest thing in the room, and it almost made Murphy guilty. How could he have possibly known that someone he'd once hated -- no, despised -- could lift his grade fifteen points? 

_ He passed. _

* * *

Then there were the flowers. 

Bellamy worked at Dalloway’s Florals, spending his afternoons trimming weeds and cutting thorns. He liked it; he spent far too much time cooped up inside with names that were long dead and policies that had since been overturned. He liked history, and reading, but the flower shop was a breath of life that he couldn’t get from the dusty books he’d become acquainted with.

That same day after dinner, Murphy returned to his dorm to find a pot outside his door. A few stalks of frilly somethings grew out of it, soft pinks and purples erupting out of the dark soil. Murphy looked around. The corridor was still full of students milling about, but no one seemed out of place. No one even looked at the little pot that stood at his door, waiting for him. 

He picked it up. He was about to tuck it under his arm, but a bright Post-it note on the other side of the pot caught his eye. His breath hitched in his throat when he saw the clean, block-like printing that he instantly recognized from hundreds on hundreds of poetry annotations:

_ Hey Murphy -- congrats on that essay, I knew you could do it! Glad to see you're catching up. PS these are called delphiniums. I saw you looking at them at Dalloway's. See you -- Bell _

  
In movies, sometimes there is a scene where the protagonist, after discovering a secret, or narrowly avoiding capture, they will lean against a door and let out a sigh of relief, and may even wipe the sweat off their brow before the cut to the next scene. 

And even though there is no camera, no audience inside Murphy's dorm, that is exactly what he does. 

* * *

The recorder, the smile, the flowers -- all these things were ingredients to a recipe for the dizzying, breathless, catastrophic path they would eventually fall on. But like any good recipe, things had to simmer before reaching a boiling point. Bellamy was either completely oblivious to what was going on, or just playing along; those who knew him knew full well that it was most likely the latter. But everyone knew that he was nursing a soft spot for Murphy, the dyslexic boy whose spoken word could rip you to shreds.

And Murphy? He's still hoping to God (albeit stubbornly) that somewhere, somehow, he wasn't about to fall in love with Bellamy Blake. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was just kind of a filler chapter to indicate the passage of time. Obviously, they're not going to fall in love after a few days, and I wanted to incorporate that here. 
> 
> I have big plans for the next chapter, so stick with me!! :)


	5. Chapter 5

Clarke’s first reaction is to laugh, which is much better than Octavia’s: hers is to scream.

“Oh my God, Bell, I can’t believe you actually did it!”

“Well --”

“You actually got flowers, you romantic sap --!”

“Yes --”

“Just ‘cause he got a C on his essay, oh my _God_ \--”

“Okay, Octavia, we get it, I’m Romeo-fucking-Montague,” Bellamy says, and it shuts Octavia up, but only a little; she’s still snickering into her hand uncontrollably.

It’s that time of the week again -- the Skype group chat. He’d been hesitant to tell them about the whole flower thing, but of course, they would want to know. Clarke had kept them mercilessly updated back when Lexa had only been a crush; Octavia had done the same with Lincoln. It then occurs to Bellamy that he’s the only member in the group chat without a partner.

“So does this mean you … you know...” Clarke gives him a meaningful look. “Wanna pollinate his flower?...” Bellamy blushes all fourteen shades of pink, right down to fuchsia, and that alone is enough to set Octavia off again.

“ _No,_ Clarke. Once Jaha sees how much Murphy’s improved, he’ll let me off the hook for tutoring him. It was just a gesture of goodwill, you know. I’m like, 90% sure that he still hates me.”

Clarke raises an eyebrow. “What about the other 10%?”

“What kind of flowers did you get him?”  Octavia butts in, and Bellamy’s happy to dodge Clarke’s question.

“Delphiniums."

Something changes in Clarke’s face, but Bellamy misses it: he’s glancing at the clock-radio on his desk. “Speaking of flowers, I’d better get going to Dalloway’s.”

Octavia’s face visibly falls for a moment, but then brightens. “But you’ll be back at the usual time, right?”

“No, sorry. I have to meet Miller at the art museum today. Some photography project he wants me to do.”

Clarke raises both eyebrows, mouth tugging downwards in a universal _impressive!_ face. “Interesting. What’s it about?”

“I don’t know, he hasn’t told me yet. I just have to meet him. Anyway -- take care, you guys. Use protection, Octavia.”

“Bellamy, you asshat --”

“And Clarke, be sure that you didn’t put the orchids Lexa got you under a vent. The air could dry them out.” _Beep- beep._ Connection ended.

Clarke is silent for a moment. “Octavia -- do you remember when I first started dating Lexa, and I asked Bellamy what kind of flowers to get her?”

“Yeah, what about it?”

“Well -- he said to get delphiniums.”

“Okay, so?”

Clarke rolls her eyes impatiently. “Octavia -- delphiniums. He said to get delphiniums, because they represent openness to a new relationship.”

Octavia’s eyes widen. “You don’t mean --”

Clarke nods, a more familiar smile curving onto her face. “The other 10%.”

* * *

 

Raven drops another book into his arms. “You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Moping.”

He bristles. “I am not _moping_!”

She gives him a pointed look. “So what do you call it when you’re silently lusting after your young buck of an English tutor, then?”

Murphy glowers at her, positively radiating fury in the dim light of the bookshop. They’re at Five Points, and Raven had insisted that Murphy come with her for the sole purpose of being her human shopping cart. Murphy glances longingly in the direction of the door; not only does he want to get the hell out of this dusty, dank place, but Dalloway’s is only just across the street.

“It’s not _lusting_.”

Raven gives a skeptical hum as she sifts through a bin labeled _Mysteries._ “Okay … _pining_.” Murphy opens his mouth to fire some smart remark back, but Raven’s already beaten him to it. “Save it, Casanova. You obsess over those flowers, and you listen to those poems nonstop. If you don’t watch out, you may actually end up growing little vestigial breasts.”

Murphy flushes. So what if he watered those delphiniums religiously every day? Was it a crime to not let flowers die? And those poem recordings are helping him in class, thank you very much. But how different were they, really, from the ones he’d been listening to online? As Raven helpfully pointed out almost every night, he could just as easily Google a certain poem instead of clicking through Bellamy’s recorder, searching for the one he needed. But Murphy doesn’t want other readings. As much as it nauseates him to admit it, there’s only one voice that he can really pay attention to, and it belongs to a history dork who plants flowers in his free time.

“Listen, Murphy. Because I’m your roommate -- and watching you struggle with your little crush, while amusing, also physically pains me -- I’m going to help you.” She pauses, a copy of _Dr. Strangelove_ in her hand. “I’ll be your wingman.”

Murphy almost drops the books in his hands. “My --”

“There’s a party next week,” she continues briskly, ponytail swinging as she makes her way further up the aisle. “56 Stanton Street. Make sure Bellamy comes.” The way Raven says it makes him feel like he’s in a _Mission:Impossible_ movie. _Your mission, should you choose to accept it …_

He’s mercifully distracted by a buzz in his pocket -- his phone, signalling a new text. Murphy shifts the books into one arm.

 **ugly (don’t answer)**  
_Hey! Miller wanted us to meet him at the art museum today at 6. Think you can come?_

“Who’s that?” Raven asks.

“Bellamy. He wants to meet up at the art museum today.” He rereads the message, unsure if he wants to reply or not.

“What?! No way!” Raven, as usual, has already decided for him: she plucks the phone from his hand and immediately begins typing, thumbs flying across the screen.

“Hey --!”

“ _Of… course_ ,” Raven intones as she types, now moving swiftly down the aisle. Murphy’s dropping everything, uttering curses at the ponytailed girl as he drops a particularly thick volume on his foot. “ _I would love … to see art with you … even though you yourself …_ ” here she turns back around, grinning like the mad little devil she is.

“Don’t.” The word is not only filled with threats that he can’t say (not in public, at least) but is also laced with an unmistakable note of pleading.  

She looks at him, then back at the phone.

“ _.... Areaworkofart,_ ” she finishes quickly. Murphy lunges for his phone, but it’s too late: he watches in horror as the grey text underneath the message transitions from _delivered_ to _read_ to the three ellipses that indicated typing.

 **You** **_  
_ ** _Sorry, my friend Raven sent that. But yeah, I can make it tonight._

The dots stopped, then resumed.

 **ugly (don’t answer)** **  
** _Oh, haha. Makes a lot more sense._

 **You** **  
** _I’m at the bookstore rn. I could meet you outside?_

**ugly (don’t answer)**

_Sure, that’s fine_

Murphy shoves his phone back into his pocket and bends down to retrieve his fallen books. “I hate you.”

Raven has the nerve to flash him a grin. “You’re welcome.”

* * *

 Murphy doesn’t mind that his response to the visual arts can be pretty superficial; for instance, he often resorts to pointing out that someone in the painting looks like so-and-so from TV. Also, there’s a certain amount of art gallery etiquette that he needs to get the hang of -- how long to stand in front of each painting, what noises to make, that sort of thing -- but he and Bellamy settle into a rhythm that’s comfortable enough; not too fast as to seem shallow, not too slow as to be deathly bored.

They’re standing in the 18th century room, gazing upon a not particularly remarkable painting by someone Murphy’s never heard of. A few yards behind him, he can hear the click-click-click of the shutter on Miller’s camera.

“So… tell me, what’s the point of Miller following us around again?”

Bellamy shrugs, eyes still trained on the painting. “He wouldn’t tell me. Said it might affect how the photos come out.” He smiles at him. He dazzles. Murphy wonders if Miller caught that. Bellamy looks back at the painting. “Though, to be honest … when he asked me to be a model for his project, this isn’t really what I pictured.”

Murphy silently agreed. When they’d finally met up with Miller at the front, he’d instructed them to go through the museum as normal guests, but Miller would tail them the whole time. Before setting them loose, he’d taken headshots of the both of them, “just because.” Murphy isn’t sure what kind of avant-garde shit Miller is trying to pull, but whatever it is, it’s giving him more time to be with Bellamy, so he keeps quiet.

“Why didn’t he just ask Monty to do it?” Murphy asks as he moves on to a still life. It made sense: they spent so much time together that, if they weren’t dating by now, then they surely would be in the future.

Bellamy laughed, a deep, throaty sound that made Murphy’s stomach lurch. “I asked him the same thing. Apparently I’ve got nice bone structure.”

As Bellamy looks at the painting before him, Murphy gives him a quick study. _Did_ he have nice… whatever? He supposes there’s the cheekbones, both of which peak just below his eyes before fading nicely into his jaw. It gives his face long, angular features that contrast sharply with Murphy’s wide ones.

He’s brought out of his reverie when Bellamy points at the next frame palm up. “What do you think of this one?”

Murphy looks. It’s a Gainsborough-esque couple standing under a tree. He gives a shrug. “Nice colors.”

Bellamy rolls his eyes in a way that means, _Go on …_

Murphy clears his throat. “Okay, Mr. Art Critic. So … the lady on the left doesn’t look too happy, but she should be, ‘cause she’s obviously pretty loaded. Probably thanks to her husband. Maybe he’s like, I dunno … bad in the sack or something.”

Bellamy gives a chuckle. “You think so?”

“I mean, maybe.”

Bellamy shakes his head. “You’re funny, Murphy. You can’t analyze a poem for shit, but you can look at a painting and determine the subject’s libido.”

“Well, you know, a picture’s worth a thousand words…”

Another hour passes, but Murphy hardly feels it. Before long they’re just talking, talking about their favorite movies and bands and whether or not Batman really could take Superman in a fight. Every new painting brings the same request from Bellamy: “Tell me the story behind this one.” All the while the figures in the paintings watch them go by; one depiction of an old lady especially freaks Murphy out, her icy gaze staring straight through his soul with a blazing intensity which seemed to say, _“You’re on a date with Bellamy Blake! Do something, you dyslexic disappointment!”_

And he _wants_ to do something. He’s just not sure what.

Before long they’re in the modern art room, which confuses Murphy beyond belief. If he could read pictures better than words, then modern art was the dyslexia of art. They weren’t even called artworks, they were “art installations.” One such installation is a kind of huge, paper worm thing that was suspended from the ceiling, dominating the center of the room.

Bellamy looks at him. “Penny for your thoughts.”

“There are none,” he admits truthfully. Murphy looks around; the other installations are scattered around the worm, radiating outwards like the streets in Five Points. But blinking lights out of the corner of his eye make him turn. Tucked away in a corner is an old-fashioned crane machine, light bulbs around the glass box blinking excitedly. He nudges Bellamy. “Look.”

Closer inspection reveals the name of the game crawling in a digital sign, the letters in bold red: LIFE GAME 2016. Inside the machine is an assortment of stuffed brains and hearts.

“Penny for _your_ thoughts,” Murphy says.

Bellamy rubs his chin. “Is it functional?”

Murphy points. A TRY ME sticker is beside the coin slot.

“Got a quarter?”

After a quick rummage in his back pockets, Murphy produces the coin, and the machine comes to life. Something changes in Bellamy’s face as he grips the joystick, like he’s about to nuke King George’s Fortress.

Murphy blinks. “Aren’t these things supposed to be impossible?”

“Not for me.” He grins. “I think I’m feeling the brain. What about you?”

Without waiting for a response, he sets his gaze stoically on the crane, moving the joystick so that it’s hovering just above one of the pinkish things. The crane drops, grabs -- and reemerges clutching a brain, dropping it into the chute that opened at Bellamy’s feet. _YOU LOSE!_ the digital banner exclaims.

A furrow appears between the taller’s eyebrows. “Got another quarter?”

Another round, and this time Bellamy goes for the heart. Same results.

“Told you they were impossible,” Murphy smirks as the banner flashes again.

“Huh. Weird.” He bends down and retrieves the both the heart and brain from the chute. “Anyway, I said I wanted the brain --- so that means you get the heart,” Bellamy grins, holding it out to him.

Murphy takes it, and tries very hard to not let the corners of his mouth turn upwards at the gesture. _Click-click-click_ goes Miller’s shutter.

* * *

 “I think I finally get it.”

“Get what?”

“The crane machine. The one with the brains and hearts.”

“Okay, shoot.”

Bellamy’s driving Murphy back to his residence hall, which was practically across campus from his. The sun had already set by the time they came out of the museum. After another round of headshots with Miller, they’d said their goodbyes and crossed emptying parking lot to Bellamy’s car. It’s a beat up little sedan that had books and receipts and shoes tossed in the back, along with that corny little pine tree air freshener on the mirror. It wasn’t what Murphy had imagined Bellamy to drive, but then again, Bellamy wasn’t a lot of things Murphy had imagined.

“So -- it was called the ‘Life Game,’ right? You lost both times because no one can win at life. Doesn’t matter how good you are at it. It’s unbeatable.”

Bellamy chuckles. “Pessimistic, but I’ll take it. What about the brains and hearts?”

Murphy’s silent for a moment, turning the heart Bellamy had given him over in his hands. “It’s the oldest argument in the world, isn’t it? Emotion versus reason, faith versus logic. You have to pick one and stick with it.”

“Pathos versus logos,” Bellamy murmurs.

Okay, sure. Whatever _that_ was.

They roll to a traffic light, which makes two minutes seem even longer than they did in Jaha’s class. “I like you like this,” Bellamy says.

“Like what?”

“Talking. You hold back when there’s too many people around.”

“I don’t hold back. I just don’t have anything interesting to say.”

Bellamy looks skeptical. “Yeah, sorry, not buying it. You have this maddening little smile sometimes, like you’ve just thought of something incredibly witty but you’re afraid to say it in case no one gets the joke.”

Murphy looks out across the dark road. The way he figured, keeping quiet was safe - unless it was arguing, of course. He liked to argue. But all that stuff in between? No, thanks. Words could betray you if you used the wrong ones, or mean less if you used too many. Jokes could be grandly miscalculated, stories deemed boring, and Murphy had learned early on that what he found interesting didn’t exactly match up with everyone else’s.

“Do you ever just not want to go home?” Bellamy asks. The light from a streetlamp falls across his face, and Murphy can tell that he's serious.

 _All the time,_ Murphy wants to say. _All the fucking time._ But instead he shrugs and says, “Depends. Why?”

“How about we go somewhere?”

Murphy gives a mirthless chuckle. “We’re in Shitty Town, USA, Bell. There’s nowhere to go.”

“The park,” Bellamy says. “We can go to the park. Just you and me.”

Murphy looks at him. _Just you and me._

The light turns green.

* * *

The park had this huge wooden pirate ship setup, the highest point being a bare wooden platform with the Jolly Roger flag hoisted up above it. “The lookout’s nest,” Bellamy told Murphy. It’s here that they sit, cross-legged, accompanied only by the shuffling of night animals and the sounds of the occasional passing car.

“Why here?” Murphy asks.

“‘Cause I like it here.” Bellamy had found a straw wrapper some fool had left, and was folding it into a little paper star. “Sometimes I read, but usually I just lie back and listen to music.”

Murphy watches his large, brawny hands carefully sculpt the little star. “How did you know how to work the crane?”

He laughs. “My sister loves that stuff. When she was little, I’d always get her something from the crane machine at the grocery store.” Then he holds up the finished star in his palm. “Make a wish.”

“Why would I wish on that when I’ve got the real thing --” Murphy indicates the night sky “-- up there?”

Bellamy grins. “Fair point. Okay, wish on one of _those_ stars, if you want.”

As Bellamy tilts his head up to the stars, Murphy allows his own gaze to stray back to him.The moonlight cast a soft glow on his face; his eyes shone with amusement, freckles dancing across the bridge of his nose. He was achingly effortless, and he would never, in a million years, choose John Murphy. But for the next few moments, Murphy contents himself with the possibility that he might.

"There's a party next week," Murphy blurts out. "Are you going?" 

Bellamy gives him a look. "Don't tell me that's what you wished for." 

"No, you ass. Raven told me this afternoon, and I just ... remembered." 

Bellamy gives another one of his skeptical hums. "Do you want me to?" 

"Do you want me to want you to?" 

"Why are you answering a question with a question?" 

"'Cause I don't feel like answering yours." 

A smile flickers across Bellamy's lips. "Sure, Murphy. I'll go. But not because you want me to." 

"Oh, fuck off." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, that was a long one! Once again, many heartfelt thanks to everyone who's kept up with me this far and left kudos and lovely comments and things! Your enthusiasm for this story really does propel me to write. 
> 
> Also, at the end, Murphy basically wishes, in a very artful way, that Bellamy would fall for him back. [audience awwww's].
> 
> There will only be one or two chapters after this. Keep holding on ... they'll figure out how they feel eventually. :)


End file.
